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Tuesday, April 30, 2013

insisted catharsis * 4/30/13

In a writhing mind, is there
relief from the box camera of self?
If for leaving the tripod of self-sanity?
No more the development
from the captured images by recognition,
no more the possessiveness
from self consciousness as stir,
no more a position
of registry as self sensed.
I leave in resolution
the anomalies of identification.
I take off the wardrobe of eventfulness.
I am no more than
a drop in a rainfall, given to flow,
than a granule in migration
amongst all other grains in the ever-shift,
than an exhale
in an usherence as breeze.
I am ocean in return.
I am mountain in surrender.
I am the escort of motion by breath.
I am of these things
and never to be named.
I have no context for animation
that is so, here just to be.
I am all of nothing, ever in motion.
Each exhale, the absolution from I,
somewhere in the lyrics
of all song, some expression
in the medium of all sound,
to be the perfume from glitter
in freefall migration,
to be the out-breath
of a black hole’s confession,
to be the evidence produced
from mostly exploring
the lower vibrational rates
that express as mass,
to be in the hookup phase
where prayer becomes spirit,
to be in the inner wisdom gained
from where all words
are spirits rising
from road kill in passing,
to be wrapped in the fabric
of fallout igniting.
I, shamelessly, come from word,
without dress rehearsal,
without the glitch of time.
We, as oneness, are in the mix,
where wondrous has no shelf life.
I honor what you are as essence,
said back to you.
Do not hear me,
but be . . .

Monday, April 29, 2013

walk in balance (haiku) 4/29/13

inner and outer

life is called forward to task
to walk in balance

Sunday, April 28, 2013

critical mass & un-mass * 4/28/13

We’ve always seem to come
from the awkward side there of,
building towards demonstratable excess,
somehow accounting for all of the variables,
reveling in the conjugation
of the potential consequence,
featuring all of these elements,
as the moronic cacophony on the rise,
as if it were a musical,
building towards crescendo,
metamorphosis though critical mass,
and we, as humans,
all had seats on the fifty,
living the expected
but longing for the unexpected to emerge
but dimensionally demonstrative
and there by, critical mass
as being audience friendly.
But what of the critical un-mass?
That which labors discreetly
below our sensory range,
unimpeded, massively prevalent
yet remarkable undertow.
To be where we don’t have at it
as an agreed upon consensual grasp,
though we might hurl meaningfuls
as innuendoes or inferences,
or express through like qualities of
empathy, telepathy, telekinesis,
psychic, clairvoyance, mystical,
intuitive, and even spiritual
as if to cast a cognitive net or spell
of dead right noteworthy in capture.
But there is no blatant symbology
standing at the street corners
of recognition waving in our direction,
flagging us down
for a face to face exchange
in these cases.
No, critical un-mass
is like an away game
except the journey is not
a here to there journey.
It is transformational in nature,
away from the mundane.
It is acquiring awareness skills
otherwise vaguely used
in our normal experiential lives.
So, is the new frontier,
not revelations about
the death of the planet
but a new life of consciousness
for looking and being?

Saturday, April 27, 2013

watch face (haiku) 4/27/13

look at my watch face
it yawns at me, bored with time
what am I to do?

Friday, April 26, 2013

Experiential logic * 4/26/13

Experiential logic is based upon
expected repeatable results.
The experience of change is
always topically a concern.
But there is a question
behind change always begged.
If discovery is of no real harm,
is change itself, an issue?
Change as perceived
always has alarm potential.
Change is always a way a ways
from the expected mindset pattern.
Change from consensual patterning
brings up the red flags of concern.
People have tended to wear
their skin of sensitivity
towards change in victim hood.
To wear the skin
of change as a constant
as if the intention was
to share in its goodness
is vaguely accepted.
Guardianship against change,
in this case,
has many allies towards protection.
The original premise of guardianship
across the entire experience spectrum 
yields insulation,
isolation and separation
as strong methods of guardianship
and somehow
a justified need for protection.
Education by its method
does not teach how to witness change.
We all, as essentially starved,
live for the unexpected,
a broader sense of fluidity to existing.
But we lack the in depth training
to see the rules behind
change is change changing.
Business thrives on predictability
towards advantages of anticipation.
But our personal lives seem to be
stalled in cameos of self contracts
where by we are fixtures of habits
and contracted with others to do so.
Thus experiential logic pervades,
though we truly thrive
on an authenticity
that defies that logic
and risks for the wonder
of the moment
freshly offered and
consummately shared . . .

Thursday, April 25, 2013

water slide (haiku) 4/25/13

down the water slide
zoom with exhilarations 
blaze into splashdown

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Time honored * 4/24/13

The passage of time
is our entire life ignited,
flashing before our eyes
as key buzzwords
in decades of recall.
The look-back at our lives,
full boxcars of years,
stuffed one-car garages of months,
to do lists for each week,
crammed closets of each day,
the fine print of instructions
for each hour,
appliance usage by the minute,
and diamond ring’s facets flashing
as each second across our eyes,
each single cell’s division
within a nanosecond
inside our bodies
and all the atoms of our being,
non-locational, really,
in the mass of our self,
yet without time.
We have conjecture
for these temporal renderings,
experientially taken up
as our animated interpretives.
Quaint are these renderings,
these memories as our muse.
With clipped visuals
across our mindscapes,
we humbly exude these passages
as the passing of time.
Honoring our illusions,
exhibitive as our means.
We, each of us separately,
living as this sweep-hand.
We are these clock-face sequentials,
so time honored,                                                            
as with our lives remembered
now, as if our dreams . . .

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

watermelon heart (haiku) 4/23/13

so cool and juicy
from the watermelon heart        
it’s love at first bite

Monday, April 22, 2013

the truth of it * 4/22/13

Rational truth is only anecdotal.
Energetic truth doesn’t have a past,
is highly charged
with irrational components
and is a thrill to be living it!
In a rational truth mindset,
if the sense of experience
perfectly matches expectations,
one is living in a self made prison.
One has become a custodian of self,
dedicated to the past
rather than an adventurer
of the expression of spirit.
If energetic truth
was to live the life
of a professional juggler,
it is for the shear joy
of consciously tossing
more plates into the air
than could possibly be
rationally caught
and in doing so,
shares the joy
from the rubble crashing all around,
not as a distraction
but as a celebration,
based upon demystifying
what a toss should get you
for your efforts
and from where within you,
your toss as spirited,
had the joy of origin . . .

Sunday, April 21, 2013

whales (haiku) 4/21/13

whales grow accustomed
to ocean liner motors
as background static

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Religion * 4/20/13

Religion is the presumption
of an honorable past.
Religion is positional
and a conculsionary status.
Religion is a class action suit
in favor of incomprehensibility.
Religion is essentially rooted
in reptilian brain reality
as its origin.
Religion has a corporate stance
of revitalization and embodiment
but not the vibrational presence
of authenticity.
Religion cannot come out of the closet
as spirituality.
Doctrine is a form of branding.
Services are sales meetings.
And renderings are euphemisms
as perspectives of worth.
Religion has a product
and sales people get a commission.

Friday, April 19, 2013

what is that (haiku) 4/19/13

a forgotten sound
comes to you, out of nowhere
pencil sharpener

Thursday, April 18, 2013

that it all breaks down * 4/18/13

That it all breaks down.
That it breaks up into pieces.
Pieces eventually found
on the ground.
Pieces retelling a history
and histories inferring orientations.
And these orientations imbibed
with a sense of linearity
and style of depiction
so as to build a primitive fire
for the gathering
of storytelling as kindling. 
It is a ritual
of pragmatic proportions
and the seat upon which
language and the spoken word
began in common ancestry.
I am baffled
by the uncertainty of certainty.
How empty of frame can be.
Don't the senses lead
to their own demise
working towards certainty
in all ways
and yet all the juice of attention
is drawn to the out of frame,
the unexpected, the unusual.
Are these not all deeds of servitude
with task and accountability,
demeaning the mind's efforts
at presence?
Are we not the handcuffs?
Are we not the recipients?
Are we not the crafters, the impetus?    
Are we not our false notion
of any thing?
As a small deed,
what if, to hold nothing in frame
and looking back,
find inquiry, a false hope,
a small ritual,    
a fakery towards relevance?
Who tells the story
where all nouns are fools
and the verbs do not let on?
My voice does not call out
in the night as despair. 
My voice is an aperture of silence
within tall ships of sound
sailing outward,
ripples seeking chauffeured cause
returning to the fold,
one upon the one
upon the one
upon the fold . . .                        

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

what time is it (haiku) 4/17/13

a lone train whistles
echoing one valley over
same time every day

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

when we think experience * 4/16/13

I can hang a question
out there to ponder,
like furry dice,   
hung in the car,
from the rear view mirror.
Pretty soon,    
I am looking into that mirror
for answers.
What's with that?   
That experiential reverie,       
that everyday mind,
looking back
and I am a captive audience,
messing with meaning
as if it were a glue stick
putting impressions together.
Maybe I am just trying
to pass the time,
feigning interest,   
having purpose,
addicted to experiences
to save me. 
I make up consequences.
I tried being a romantic.
I tried life with feelings.
I tried being busy.
I tried being important.
I gave up on everything
but still experiences
came my way.
It was not healthy,
not trying,
carelessly so.    
Life became options
gained or lost.
I adapted to the life of choices,
like it was on the menu
before I really noticed.
Still tunnel functioned
as if I was a flashlight
on in a darkened room.
I lived in the spotlight
of service to hide away,
to give freely    
and it was a good time
away from
all this unfinished business.
Secretly, I was suspect
of purpose for its grandness.
I was suspect of pleasure
for its loss of control.
I was suspect of meaning
for its failure to convert me.
I was suspect of death
for its promises.
I was suspect of fear
for its neediness.
I was suspect of joy
for its frozen smile.
and I am very suspect
of this thumb opposing
sense of responsibility,
pressing me into time
and all-I-can-do experiences . . .
What is it with us,
when we think experience
is the composite of what we are?

Monday, April 15, 2013

what’s this (haiku) 4/15/13

seeing fine dark print 
unexpected dollar fine
damn parking ticket

Sunday, April 14, 2013

knock knock * 4/14/13

Knowledge is our method
for acquiring excess baggage,
with memories as decals upon it.
We have consciousness
as our perusal form of travel.
Everywhere we go, in the going,
is our negative affirmation pronounced,
by omission, denying our oneness
by ritualistically affirming separates
as sacred articulates of experience.
As long as we are the journey,
we are just at an elaborate white sale,
sensing reality as a personalized context
that does not essentially exist.
We selectively and myopically made it up.
Mass is our sensorial religion.
For the game we appear to play,
we have a God as the backstop,
the end line, the ceiling,
the forest for the trees,
and our outer limits
to comprehension’s endpoint.
We train endlessly to roll peanuts
of token compassion and caring
in an effort to force feed
this imaginary elephant
that is the collective heart
of us from all of human time
up to and including, now.
We live in an elaborate zoo labyrinth
of self-conscious entrainment,
but can’t really tell
who is the cause of whom.
Every first step I take
within my mind consciously,
denies me entry,
because every first step
affirms from presumptions
of somewhere in particular past
as in denial
of everywhere at once
as my quantum sense of being.
Existence is mythfully no effort at proof.
There is no worth position to being.
Being has no world of mirrors.
Being has no intake as method.
Being, beyond the awareness sensory level,
is expression coming forth from within,
harmony waves broadcast
seeking coherency.
Cogency, always searching
for higher cause.
For saying these things,
I am a drug of illusions,
falling through puddles of words,
sipping language to stand upright
as the progeny
of cognitive entitlement.
It is my apparent species birthright!
yet falling forward, as common sense,
becomes my middle ears.
If we, you and I together,
are not beyond my words,
then I have only knocked
on a door that cannot be opened.
One, because it was only sensed
as a knock that is heard,
and two, because it was only
perceived as just another door . . .

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Whining (haiku) 4/13/13

a high-pitched whining
awakens you in the night        
thirsty mosquito

Friday, April 12, 2013

Savored questions * 4/12/13

Where in you do my words
become your comfort?
Where in my say
do you specifically feel confirmed?
Where in this, my silent tonal sound
that you hear, secures acceptance?
What travels within you
as what you heard?
Where in my unheard voice
does it color what you view?
Where does what meaning does
eventually reside within you?
Who listens within you
to hear you through me speak?
Is conclusion the only tone
passed along?
If I speak from my aloneness
can it not be heard
behind what I say?
Is my riddle, in the deepest sense
not essentially yours?
Where are we baffled
with unidentified hyper-vigilance
that incessantly, though subdued,
vacantly screams?
Are there no answers to exclamations?
Where does the source of exasperation
seek to land?
How does frustration find its home
if my words knock
at the only door closed?
Why does the illusion
of separation so profusely display,
if not for the scouring
of small locations of pain?
If our now has no comparison
worthy of method
then how do we counter
each moment's banter
beyond pseudo refrain?
Is expectation is the runt
of each moment's litter,
overcompensating for the loss
of self, possessed
and yet falsely identified?
Who needs to mentor our troubles
with the wardrobe of change?
Who needs to inspire inevitability
out of our joy?
Why do we have topic
doing hard time
and propinquity
as proximity's evil stepchild?
And why can't dynamic have
no eventful needs
and presence be
a razor sharp endearment,
a flow-state of realization
as beings . . . ?
Savored questions . . .
Inadvertently repeated often,
though faceless and unnamed . . .